


Mistle-bombing

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Minor Mystery, Mistletoe, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 14:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16834315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: This fic totally ignores Series Four, as is only right and just. Mary, eight months pregnant, disappeared and hasn't been heard from since. John was sad and grieving, more over the loss of his child than his marriage, but has had a year to reconcile himself. Now he's back in 221B and things are just the way they used to be.Well, except for the horrible crush Sherlock is hiding. And the minor mystery of who is hanging all this mistletoe everywhere.





	Mistle-bombing

“Oh there you are, dear!” Mrs Hudson swooped across the hallway, arms extended, clearly intent on embracing him. Sherlock nearly shied away in annoyance, but then he remembered that A) Mrs Hudson was tenacious, B) he was actually fond of her, and C) it was nearly the festal season, and he needed to be more approachable and friendly and blah blah blah.

Smelling of brandy, sugar, and too much hair lacquer, his landlady hugged him tightly, standing on tiptoe to kiss him soundly on each cheek. “Naughty boy, planting that mistletoe all about,” she whispered, as if he had any earthly idea what she was talking about. He hadn’t brought any plants into the building since his experiment last month on Molly’s potted Japanese quince. It had been quite atrocious attempting to haul it home on the Tube.

Worth it.

Molly hadn’t been any too pleased with him.

Still worth it.

“Has John returned?” Sherlock demanded, wriggling out of her hug. It had been a year since Mary’s disappearance as a very unwieldy eight-months pregnant fugitive; while John had grieved the loss of his daughter with a depth which Sherlock hadn’t entirely understood, even if he had responded to it with silent, instinctive sympathy, he had slowly began to resume life with more of his old spirit. It was less than two weeks since he had moved back into 221B (where he had always belonged), and Sherlock had to keep fighting down a giddy sense of relief mixed with happiness. Gone were the days when he’d scarcely noticed John’s absence. Now it left him with an ache in his chest, soothed only by John’s return.

“No…he called a little while ago to say he was seeing his sister settled and then he’d come home by way of Tesco’s.”

Food, tedious. “I’ll take my tea upstairs,” Sherlock said absently, bounding up the stairs. “I’ve some notes to update on my website.”

“Not your housekeeper!” floated up the stairs behind him, but Sherlock was already in the door of the flat and flinging his coat on the rack. He shed his suit jacket and shoes, and donned his dressing gown and slippers. Settling comfortably in his chair, Sherlock popped open his laptop and began busily typing.

A pleasant sense of anticipation tingled in his awareness; John should be returning soon, and a quiet evening ahead, just the two of them, lay in wait. Perhaps John would make that thing with the peas and Sherlock would leave his website and join him in the kitchen to observe. Or they might order in from their favourite Indian place—too much food, as always—and watch some inane film that would make John laugh and cause Sherlock to sneak looks at him all night.

Whatever they did, they would do it together. The way it had been just a few short years ago, before Sherlock had got it wrong. Before Mary, and the baby, and a million little unspoken things inserted themselves between the two of them. This was enough. It had to be enough because it was what he had and he knew now to be grateful and humble.

Well, sort of humble. John still routinely reminded him that he was a selfish git and an appallingly self-centered bastard…but he did it with genuine affection. Sherlock quite relished his tart comments. One didn’t insult a man and still move in with him unless one cared.

Surely?

The distinctive sound of John’s size nines moving rapidly up the creaky stairs alerted him to his arrival, and Sherlock looked up, assuming the look of “caring but not too caring” which he had been cultivating. Open to conversation but not dripping with frustrated lust and unrequited love. He quite thought he’d got it down properly now. The first few times John had asked him if he were ill.

“Hey-ho,” John said breezily, opening the door, one arm loaded with bags. “Gimme a hand?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, rising quickly, setting aside his laptop and striding across to retrieve two of the bags from John’s load. He followed him into the kitchen, sniffing surreptitiously. John had been to the barber; his hair was freshly trimmed on the sides and back, although he still wore it parted on the left, and combed up and over in a rather devastating swoop. There was a lingering smell of Barbicide, Eucalyptus shampoo and aftershave.

Together they unloaded the groceries, Sherlock allowing his arm to brush against John several times. There was a sturdy warmth about the solid figure in cords, checked shirt, jumper and navy moto jacket. It made him want to burrow into John as if he were an unmade bed awaiting his return. It was heady stuff, this attraction.

“Harry?” Sherlock asked, ripping into the packet of ginger nuts John knew he favoured. He bit enthusiastically into one as John efficiently put away supplies.

“Sorted,” John assured him, sounding tired. He stopped and leaned against the bench, scrubbed at his face, “She was willing—eager even, this time—but it’s still pretty devastating to lock your sister away.”

Sherlock squirmed slightly as he thought of his previous experiences with rehab. He’d quite hated Mycroft at the time, but distance and perspective had given him a lot of insight. There was a weary responsibility to being the dependable sibling, and John and Mycroft both wore it with dignity. “They say if you’re willing it’s more liable to be beneficial,” he said vaguely.

“Can’t believe she elected to do it just before the holidays…she’ll be inside during Christmas.” John’s face twisted with complicated emotions. “Guess I’ll have to visit her on Christmas Day.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Sherlock offered quickly, before he considered that perhaps it was an odd thing to offer, or that John might not want him there. He must have been right about one of those things, as John looked at him oddly.

“Really? Wow…thanks.”

“Of course,” Sherlock mumbled, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his dressing gown, forgetting that he was clutching a fistful of ginger nuts.

John grunted, and put away the last of the things. “Anyway, I’m shattered…it was a long day.”

“Have a shower,” Sherlock suggested, “I’ll order in and we can make a quiet night of it.”

“Yeah?” John smiled at him tiredly, “That’d be great. My usual, please.”

“Of course...” Sherlock watched him head for the stairs up to his room and reflected wistfully on how sublimely wonderful it would be if he could undress John and join him in the shower. Not that he had any practical idea of what to do—washing aside—but a man could dream. Shaking off his thoughts, Sherlock returned to his laptop and placed their usual order, adding several large mango lassis and some nariyal burfi and kheer. John had quite the sweet tooth, and it was clear he needed comforting. Sherlock felt it was a rather empty gesture, but it was all he had to offer.

John, however, seemed pleased when he saw the bounty of food, and his eyes lit up at the sight of the desserts. “Fuck it,” he said, reaching for the nariyal burfi, “I’m eating backwards.”

“Why not?” Sherlock agreed, slurping obnoxiously at his lassi. They grinned at one another, and he told himself once more that this was enough.

******

“Oi, watch it,” Lestrade growled playfully, putting his arms on John’s biceps and pretending to shove him away. He glanced up at the mistletoe hanging in the doorway of the flat, “If you wanted a kiss, Johnny, you just had to say.” He puckered his lips and waggled his eyebrows, “C’mere, sexy,” he purred, gesturing at John.

John laughed, but before he could respond, Sherlock was standing between them. “You had a reason for your visit?” His voice was cold enough to freeze, and Lestrade blinked up at him before shrugging.

“Erm, yeah. Right…came here with an early Christmas prezzie for you boys. Got a case might interest you…”

Lestrade’s voice faded out as Sherlock turned and found John standing flat on both feet, eyebrow quizzically cocked. He swallowed and fought the urge to blush. John looked at him expectantly and Sherlock blinked rapidly, wondering what—oh.

“For God’s sake, John,” he sighed, as if bored of the nonsense, and swiftly pressed a kiss to John’s cheek. “There, convention satisfied, now _move_.”

His heart pattered unevenly in his chest as he stepped around John and swooped to sit in his chair, hoping his expression didn’t betray him. His first kiss with John wasn’t at all what he’d dreamed of.

*******

“Brother mine,” Mycroft greeted him, “are you trying to woo the unsuspecting doctor with greenery and sway him into physical congress with tradition?”

“Bugger off,” Sherlock muttered out of habit, but shoved a stack of scandal sheets off of John’s chair with his slippered foot. He remained sunk into his “thinking” pose, fingers steepled under his chin, gaze faraway, mind obviously grappling with important matters.

Of course, this was Mycroft. “Brooding? My, we _are_ badly bitten by love’s wicked fangs, aren’t we?”

“Don’t you ever grow tired of being a pompous arse?”

“It’s my one pleasure in life,” Mycroft rejoined, revealing more than he intended; a fact which he recognized, judging by the grimace that twisted his pale features. With great restraint, Sherlock managed not to seize the opening and torment him with his unsatisfying life.

Mycroft propped his umbrella against the arm of John’s chair and crossed his legs, leaning back as if prepared to settle in. “So. The _décor_ …”

“If you’re referring to the excessive tree trimmings festooning the halls,” Sherlock answered, closing his eyes, “I’m not responsible.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ve turned them to your advantage, though, eh?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. The silence stretched out and he could feel Mycroft’s cool eyes tracking his face. He resisted the urge to open his eyes, to sit up, to begin talking, deducing, analyzing.

“Oh Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed at last, “you are blind.”

What? What did _that_ mean? But rather than give Mycroft the satisfaction of asking, Sherlock stewed in silence until Mycroft grew bored of waiting for a response and departed.

******

“Happy Christmas!” Molly burbled, bustling into the lab like a fuzzy snowman. Her jumper was particularly appalling this time; holly-red with green spots and a white yoke with knitted holly berries. It was somehow fuzzy, shimmery and bulky all at once. The entire thing looked like it had been spun out of really thick cobwebs, if the cobwebs had been made out of a really dreadful synthetic material. Sherlock shuddered and looked away.

“I’m looking forward to the party you and John are hosting,” Molly chattered, unloading the files she’d gone to fetch when Sherlock called on their way down to the labs, “It’ll be like old times, really.” She straightened, beaming. “It’s been a bit whiffy around here, I must say,” she continued, lowering her voice. “Everyone is in a vile mood, and budgets have been cut so tightly the hospital’s not having a holiday party!”

John, who had just returned with cups of tea, murmured sympathetically, but his comfort was lost on Molly, who had spied something that made her go bright-pink with embarrassment. “Sherlock,” she squeaked, wide eyes fixed over his head. “Oh…my…” Her voice had gone as soft and gooey as the fudge which Mrs. Hudson had made last night.

“Wha—” Sherlock looked up, only to freeze when Molly suddenly darted into his personal space where he was perched on his accustomed stool; she bussed his cheek, trembling hands alighting for a moment on his shoulders, before she took half a dozen tiny steps back, face glowing. 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” she breathed, some of the old ardour kindling in her eyes. “All you had to do was ask.”

“But I didn’t—” Sherlock tried to protest. The words died in his throat as Molly whirled away, babbling as she caught sight of John, standing there with a dumbfounded look on his face and hands full of tea.

“Oh, John,” Molly exclaimed, hands flying to her cheeks. “Er—Merry Christmas!” Swift as a cardinal, she swooped in and pecked his cheek. “Merry—yes—m-merry Christmas!”

Nonplused, Sherlock stared after her retreating figure before turning bewildered eyes to John. John, face inscrutable, stood staring down at his shoes. Sighing, he put down the paper cups, glanced at Sherlock as if disappointed in him, and left the room without saying a word.

Left alone in the cold, sterile silence of the labs—once something he would have welcomed—Sherlock alternated between staring at the closed door which led down the hallway to Molly’s office, and gazing in frustration at the swinging door onto the corridor where John had disappeared. “But it wasn’t me,” he finally whispered.

******

Christmas Eve wasn’t any more magical, Sherlock reflected sourly, than any other time of year. He’d been called upon by Lestrade to attend a crime scene where three young children and their tragically young mother had been found murdered that morning. It had been hard to remain detached and objective when watching those tiny body bags being trundled solemnly out the front door. To make it worse, he hadn’t the steady comfort of John’s presence at his side to distract him. 

John had been coaxed into covering the holiday shifts—“It’s only fair, I’m the only one without a family,” he’d explained. Sherlock had burned with resentment, hurt and guilt over John’s status in the world. As if it were his fault that Mary had run so far and so fast from her past that even Mycroft couldn’t (or wouldn’t) divine her location. The old refrain of _If only I’d been smarter_ had hammered at Sherlock for weeks after her disappearance and he’d been upset to feel it returning. _I’m your family_ , he’d thought, but not said.

So much for “family,” anyway. The murderer had turned out to be the estranged father’s new girlfriend, easily solved in the end. Lestrade had apologized to Sherlock for pulling him in on a case which turned out not to have hidden depths, but Sherlock had just walked away. It wasn’t the swift, mundane denouement which had depressed him so much as it was the terrible tragedy and waste, and the burden of seeing the shallow, selfish greed and insecurity which had led the twenty-four year old woman to heartlessly murder three children under the age of nine.

It depressed him in ways he didn’t entirely comprehend, and left Sherlock feeling flattened and out of sorts. His soul cried out for the comfort of John, their familiar flat, a cup of tea. Sherlock had lost all track of time and wasn’t even sure if John would be arriving home soon. Dispirited, he unlocked the front door—Mrs. Hudson was away on a holiday cruise with friends—and wearily began to mount the stairs. Only he chanced to look up and see a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, above each step.

Gazing up in wonder, pieces begin to click into place. Mrs. Hudson would never climb a ladder tall enough to reach, not with her hip. Mycroft would have no reason. Lestrade, while fond of a joke, had been with him. Molly didn’t have access, and further, had suspected him of hanging the mistletoe in the lab.

That left…

John stood smiling at the head of the stairs, familiar and achingly beautiful in a dark blue jumper, hands loose at his side, a fine tension radiating throughout him. “Figured it out yet?” He asked, smiling at Sherlock, eyes bright as diamonds.

Heart pounding, racing, _soaring_ , Sherlock mounted the steps, shaking hand on the bannister to steady him. John descended, his face open and loving, like the embodiment of every dream Sherlock has had over the years. They meet in the middle, John one step above, putting their eyes on equal height. For one fraught moment Sherlock wonders if he’s misread John’s intentions, got it all wrong, but then—

John cupped Sherlock’s chilled face tenderly in his warm, capable hands and brought their mouths softly together, pressing kisses as delicate as spun sugar and as powerful as cocaine onto Sherlock’s willing mouth. His breath caught somewhere in his chest when John opened shining eyes and whispered, “Merry Christmas, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Twitter and Tumblr @savvyblunders


End file.
